While the King rode slowly back to the convent which he then occupied, Albany, with a discomposed aspect and faltering voice, asked the Earl of Douglas: “Will not your lordship, who saw this most melancholy scene at Falkland, communicate the tidings to my unhappy brother?”

“Not for broad Scotland,” said the Douglas. “I would sooner bare my breast, within flight shot, as a butt to an hundred Tynedale bowmen. No, by St. Bride of Douglas! I could but say I saw the ill fated youth dead. How he came by his death, your Grace can perhaps better explain. Were it not for the rebellion of March and the English war, I would speak my own mind of it.”

So saying, and making his obeisance to the King, the Earl rode off to his own lodgings, leaving Albany to tell his tale as he best could.

“The rebellion and the English war!” said the Duke to himself. “Ay, and thine own interest, haughty earl, which, imperious as thou art, thou darest not separate from mine. Well, since the task falls on me, I must and will discharge it.”

He followed the King into his apartment. The King looked at him with surprise after he had assumed his usual seat.

“Thy countenance is ghastly, Robin,” said the King. “I would thou wouldst think more deeply when blood is to be spilled, since its consequences affect thee so powerfully. And yet, Robin, I love thee the better that thy kind nature will sometimes show itself, even through thy reflecting policy.”

“I would to Heaven, my royal brother,” said Albany, with a voice half choked, “that the bloody field we have seen were the worst we had to see or hear of this day. I should waste little sorrow on the wild kerne who lie piled on it like carrion. But —” he paused.

“How!” exclaimed the King, in terror. “What new evil? Rothsay? It must be — it is Rothsay! Speak out! What new folly has been done? What fresh mischance?”

“My lord — my liege, folly and mischance are now ended with my hapless nephew.”

“He is dead!— he is dead!” screamed the agonized parent. “Albany, as thy brother, I conjure thee! But no, I am thy brother no longer. As thy king, dark and subtle man, I charge thee to tell the worst.”

Albany faltered out: “The details are but imperfectly known to me; but the certainty is, that my unhappy nephew was found dead in his apartment last night from sudden illness — as I have heard.”

“Oh, Rothsay!— Oh, my beloved David! Would to God I had died for thee, my son — my son!”

So spoke, in the emphatic words of Scripture, the helpless and bereft father, tearing his grey beard and hoary hair, while Albany, speechless and conscience struck, did not venture to interrupt the tempest of his grief. But the agony of the King’s sorrow almost instantly changed to fury — a mood so contrary to the gentleness and timidity of his nature, that the remorse of Albany was drowned in his fear.

“And this is the end,” said the King, “of thy moral saws and religious maxims! But the besotted father who gave the son into thy hands — who gave the innocent lamb to the butcher — is a king, and thou shalt know it to thy cost. Shall the murderer stand in presence of his brother — stained with the blood of that brother’s son? No! What ho, without there!— MacLouis!— Brandanes! Treachery! Murder! Take arms, if you love the Stuart!”

MacLouis, with several of the guards, rushed into the apartment.

“Murder and treason!” exclaimed the miserable King. “Brandanes, your noble Prince —” Here his grief and agitation interrupted for a moment the fatal information it was his object to convey. At length he resumed his broken speech: “An axe and a block instantly into the courtyard! Arrest —” The word choked his utterance.

“Arrest whom, my noble liege?” said MacLouis, who, observing the King influenced by a tide of passion so different from the gentleness of his ordinary demeanour, almost conjectured that his brain had been disturbed by the unusual horrors of the combat he had witnessed.

“Whom shall I arrest, my liege?” he replied. “Here is none but your Grace’s royal brother of Albany.”

“Most true,” said the King, his brief fit of vindictive passion soon dying away. “Most true — none but Albany — none but my parent’s child — none but my brother. O God, enable me to quell the sinful passion which glows in this bosom. Sancta Maria, ora............